Memoirs of Care, Recollections of Trust (Part One)
By The TruthSeekers
MSR, romance, angst
Rating:  G through R
Spoilers:  Seasons One through Nine; Post-Truth, Future fic

Dedication:  This story has been created as a gift for two very
valued friends and list members:  Sallie and Carol.  Every author who
has contributed to this collaboration has been touched by their
constant caring, friendship - and wonderful beta skills.  These
ladies are so dear to us and we wanted to show them how much we
appreciate them, and so we have created an X-story that shows the
many different ways that Mulder, Scully and other X-characters have
cared for and have helped each other, through nine seasons.

TruthSeeker Author Roll Call:

Prologue and between-chapter storyline written by Char Chaffin. 
Epilogue written by Avalon.  Chapters, in order, written by:  Char
Chaffin, Shoshana, Erin Blair, ML, Rae, Mimic117, ML, Oracle, Shelba,
Piper, Fibbie, Gina Rain, Donna, Lynn Saunders, xphilernj, Spangle,
Elizabeth Rowandale, Tess, diehard, Maggie, Wylfcynne, Deia, Bertha.

Beta Thanks: To Lidia and Aly C, for their careful beta and
enthusiastic cheering and thumbs-up!

Story Cheerleaders:  Toniann, Gail, Marybeth (Raven), Lara Means

Additional Notes and Thanks at End -

  
Summary:  Nine years of partnership and trust, a small lifetime of
love... Mulder and Scully truly have it all...


"Memoirs of Care, Recollections of Trust"


Prologue


The small room is drafty and the pipes in the ceiling rattle when
steam pumps through them.  The windows are dingy and the area rug
threadbare, there's a crack in the scarred table that sits on four
unsteady legs and hosts three mismatched chairs.  The bed is lumpy
and the pillows hold a faint trace of mildew and residual hair pomade.

But it's their room and they treasure it.  They understand the luck
of having it, when they could have been stuck in officer's quarters,
a compilation of twin beds and unisex shower stalls.  They could have
had to share, for there have been a few married couples before them
who've had to endure acting out the single life.  Rank does have its
own small perks, he supposes.

That, and seniority.  They've got plenty of it, having been in the
thick of it from Day One.

He sits on the edge of the bed and stretches his sore and stiff
muscles.  In a few hours he'll start his shift.  She'll follow after,
two hours later.  It's a strange rotation but they're used to it, and
usually they can get a minute or so to themselves after midnight mess
is over. Sometimes when it's cold and nasty outside, she brings him
coffee, and a bit of her break time.  

They've learned to grab what they can, when they can get it.

Next to him in the undersized double bed, her body is a delicate and
warm reminder of all that he counts good in his life.  Her hair is
tangled and obscures most of her face and her feet are icy against
his hip.  As usual she's commandeered most of the blankets and also
as usual, he doesn't mind.  For her comfort he'd gladly go cold.  For
her safety and well-being he'd willingly sacrifice his.

It has always been that way between them, almost from the very
first.  

He wanted to give her the world.  He wanted to give her children, a
comfortable home, a rich and satisfying life.  She deserved the very
best, and he would have done anything to see that she got those good
things.  But it never seemed to matter to her.   All she wanted was
to be his partner, his friend... years later, his lover, and then his
wife.  Able to give her the one thing he felt she could have done
without - himself - he freely admits she deserved more.  If he'd been
taken out of their equation perhaps she would have eventually met a
man who'd have been able to offer her what she deserved.

Instead, she sleeps next to him in a drafty old bunker, on a bed
whose springs are a mattress pad away from poking up through their
backs.  She eats too little protein and bathes in sometimes-rusty
water that smells of bad eggs.  She burns in the summer swelter and
freezes in the winter glaze.

And he would kill anyone who tried to take her from his side.  He
would die tomorrow if his death were an assurance of her continued
life.

"Come back to bed."  

Her murmur is a drowsy breath of sound behind him, and her hand
drifts over the small of his back.   He turns to smile at her in the
dim room and his gaze is as quietly worshipful as always.

"You should try getting more sleep, baby.  It's gonna be a very long
night."  He brushes stray curls from her forehead, then leans in to
press a kiss there.  When both her hands grasp at him and topple his
body over hers, he chuckles and lets himself fall on her.  The air in
the room is chilly but he doesn't bother pulling up the covers.  They
can keep each other warm.

Her answering grin is cheeky as she quips, "How can I sleep when I
have this weight pinning me down?  Not only that, but it's got
this... splinter... poking into me."  

"A splinter, huh?  You're sure feisty for such a skinny little
squirt."    The gentle insults are as familiar and as easy between
them as breathing.  He drops his face onto the pillow next to hers,
and they spin out endless seconds just staring at each other.  He
whispers, "You're so pretty.  Every time I look at you, I see
something else that reminds me of how utterly pretty you are."

She shakes her head in instant denial.  "I'm not.  You're dreaming,
my love.  Or else blind.  One of the two."

"Nope.  I'm madly in forever lust with the only woman who could whup
my ass with one hand tied behind her, then soothe all my aches with
two blue eyes and a smile made in heaven."  He waits for her
reaction, knowing exactly what she'll say.

She doesn't disappoint him.  "Gack!  Where do you come UP with this
sap?  And why do I have the feeling I'm being set up for coffee
detail, when it'll be the coldest out on line?"  

"Because you are.  And because I don't want to go for twelve hours
without seeing those blue eyes... and of course, the coffee.  Gotta
have my priorities straight."

"Oh, of course."

They snuggle together in silence, both smiling at their combined
silliness and both grateful as can be that in this dark place in
their lives they can find those daily rays of happiness.  As she idly
sifts slender fingers through the shaggy hair at the nape of his
neck, she observes, "You're in a good mood today.  I'm glad.  Last
few days, you've seemed down.  Overly quiet.  Deep in thought, too. 
And I have a feeling I know why."

He sighs; it's tough keeping his morose feelings from her.  After
all these years together, she just knows him too well.

It's an anniversary, of sorts.  Oh, he doesn't remember the exact
date.  Mostly it's the time of year; the season.  For some reason
it's hit him harder this year than any in their past.  Probably
because they've faced more danger, had more very close calls. 
They're both older, tougher, stronger... and yet more weary and thus
fragile as hell some of the time.  Like these past few days.

She deserves so much more than her present lot in life, he thinks,
as he strokes her bright hair and enjoys the feel of her bare skin
pressed up against his.  A small oasis in another long, draining day;
another in a series of days that will link together in weeks and then
months, until it becomes another year to think back on, and remember
that once again he wished he'd been able to give her the world.  A
normal world, that is... not the madness outside the dingy window of
their old and drafty bunker.

"Mulder, stop it."  Her firm voice startles him out of another
escalating funk, and he shakes himself a little, lets her cup his
cheek and turn his face toward her.

He pretends innocence.  "Stop what?"

A huffy sigh.  "I'm here, with you - quite willingly.  I wouldn't
change a day of the time we've had together.  The sacrifices we have
made - both of us, Mulder, not just me - have been worth it, for us
to stay together."  Her eyes are fierce with love as they hold his. 
"I remember standing in the rain with you, and understanding where
your logic, in that brilliant thinkpad brain of yours, was coming
from.  I remember how happy it made me when I took that leap and
connected those dots. 

"And, Mulder... never have I had a day since then that I didn't feel
loved and cared for.  Even when we disagreed, when we were split up
and off the Files, you took care of me.  Trusted me.  Let me close
enough to learn to trust you."  Her hand catches his neck and she
tugs him down for a kiss of passion and of promise.  Their lips cling
for long seconds, before she releases him and buries her damp mouth
against his ear.

Her broken voice entreats, "Remember, Mulder?  Remember even when
suspicion was all around us, still we kept our heads and hearts;
still we believed.  We trusted.  We cared..."


******************************
******************************


CHAPTER ONE

Cold Comfort
By Char Chaffin
Email:  char@chaffin.com
Spoilers:  "Ice"


The relief she feels when her hands-on examination reveals firm,
smooth, normal flesh... it almost sends her to her knees.  The last
few hours just about killed her.  Running through her exhausted brain
throughout the testing and the waiting, had been bitter regret.  

She'd pulled a gun on her partner, her friend.  Forced herself to
allow niggling doubt to escalate into full-blown mistrust.  She'd
felt actual pain when he'd slowly lowered his arm, dropped his gun...
docilely allowing himself to be led to the storeroom and locked in. 
He'd done it all based on his trust for her.

Where had her own trust escaped to?

Her eyes meet his and in them she can see a mirror of the relief she
feels, tempered with residual resentment.  Of course he's right to
feel that way.  She let the situation they'd found themselves facing
get to her.  She'd allowed it to drain away her common sense where
this man is concerned.  She feels miserable about it, but at least
they're both all right.  Uninfected.  They now have to face the
consequences of the mistrust, and try to convince the last remaining
members of the team that one of them might very well be the infected
host.

Piece of cake, right?

The smile that flickers briefly over her face as she turns to open
the door dies off in a hurry when he reaches out with both hands and
grabs her.  Warm, large and demanding, his fingers tug at the loose
collar of her flannel shirt; one palm presses against her cheek,
cautioning her to remain still.  Shock itself seems to take care of
that... she's frozen in place.  And she knows he's searching for
signs of infection.  She knows his touch is nothing less than
scientific.  

But heat radiates from each of his sensitive fingertips and his
breathing has accelerated, as he rubs and probes at her nape, the
starting slope of both shoulders.  She trembles and she knows he has
to feel that, too.  He's never touched her bare skin like this.  

As soon as his hands leave her neck her shoulders sag.  She's
certain he can hear the pounding of her heart.  Before she can tug
her shirt back into place he's spinning her around to face him - and
it seems to take forever for her eyes to meet his, so strongly does
she feel as though she'd betrayed him, hours ago.

But when she finally looks up, steeling herself to accept whatever
condemnation she can see in his eyes... all she can discern is
overwhelming concern and caring.  Her vision blurs alarmingly; then
her breath actually backs up in her lungs in shock... for he's
yanking on her shoulders and dragging her into his arms, holding her
tightly, his face buried in her hair, his body bowed over hers
protectively.  

The words he repeats over and over are coated in an emotion-laden
rasp.  "Okay, you're okay, we're both okay..."

She nods into his chest as her arms slowly encircle his waist.  Not
trusting her voice to come out in any kind of normal tone, she just
nods again, both hands fisted in the soft cotton covering his back
and her legs threatening to buckle beneath her.  They remain in that
position for long moments, taking comfort in the warmth they create
between themselves.  She doesn't want to move, ever again.  Doesn't
want to open the door and step out into that leftover madhouse, for
it's far from finished. There's a killer beyond that door, an
innocent victim of an unknown entity that cannot control what it has
become.  They still have to face it down... but at least they'll face
it together.

With one last shuddering breath she steps away from his warmth,
holding his eyes as this time her smile blooms honest and open across
her weary face.  He answers it with one of his own, a wide grin
that's pure Mulder.  She hasn't seen it much lately and now
understands just how much she's missed it.

Retaining one of her hands, Mulder gives it a gentle squeeze and
lets her pull him toward the door.  Just before it opens, she glances
up at him and nods in approval of the 'thumbs-up' sign he gives her. 

They're okay.  They're ready to take it on, whatever it will take to
bring this situation under control safely, without further loss of
life.  She's so glad to have him by her side, right then, right that
minute, right where he belongs.

So glad.

"You ready, Scully?"

She nods again.  "I'm ready."

"Then let's blow this popsicle stand.  Let's go slay the ice-worm."

"I'm already there, Mulder."


*****************************
*****************************


His hand rests on her tender nape.  Likewise her palm has found the
back of his neck and is cupped there, protecting him.  Though it
happened many years ago, recalling those frightening hours has shaken
them both.  So early in their careers, and yet they hung on.  
Something like that might have decimated any other partnership.

But not theirs.

"We're stronger when we're together, Mulder.  It's always been that
way.  Sometimes I'd think of us as two imperfect halves of one
perfect whole.  In those early years we had more than one opportunity
to give it up, give in.  But we didn't."

He strokes her back.  "No, we didn't.  And we built strength upon
strength along the way.  You were so much of what I needed, what I
still need, Scully..."


**********************************
**********************************


CHAPTER TWO


A Friend in Need
By Shoshana
Email:  shoshana1013@yahoo.com
Spoilers:  Fallen Angel



"Coming!"

Mulder grabs hold of one crutch and limps to the door of his
apartment.
She still doesn't have a key; maybe he ought to amend that situation
soon.

"Hey, Scully.  What's in the bag?  Why the special trip over here? 
Making sure I'm being a good boy?"

Scully reacts to the barrage of question by scrutinizing him
closely; he can tell she's not happy.  He hops back to the sofa and
she sits down at the opposite end, avoiding an unknown substance
which may or may not be pepperoni.

"You should be using both crutches, Mulder," she responds, frowning
at the pizza boxes and soft drinks cluttering the coffee table.  She
continues to survey his environment, taking in the stray items of
clothing, a pile of Celebrity Skin magazines, and a stack of what
looks to be rented videos.

"Yeah, yeah.  I know.  I was in a hurry to get to the door and see
you, Scully.  Haven't seen anyone all weekend."

"You could have called.  The only reason I'm here now is that you
managed to avoid all my direct questions earlier.  I had a hunch you
were living on takeout and root beer."

"I didn't want to bother you.  I've had sprained ankles before.  I'm
fine."

She smiles at his use of a familiar phrase.  "Sure you are.  Your
apartment is a pig sty and you can barely make it to the bathroom. 
Let me check that ankle.  I'll bet you overdid it after you came home
from the hearing."

"Nah!"  He shakes his head in reaction to her dubious expression. 
"I've been either on this sofa or in the john since I got home. Well,
I did answer the door several times for pizza delivery, but
otherwise-"

Scully closes her eyes in mild exasperation.  "I wish you had asked
for my help earlier.  Good thing I can sense these things over the
phone.  How did you get all those borrowed videos?  They don't
deliver, do they?"

Mulder, slightly embarrassed that she would even notice, replies
sheepishly, "Okay, I made one trip to the video store, Scully.  One
trip."

"And?"

Not looking up, he says with a grin, "And one to the Lone Gunmen."

"And?"

"One to the grocery store--"

"Jeez.  That's three trips in a vehicle you can barely drive,
walking around when you should be at home."

He scratches the back of his head, looking appropriately contrite. 
She can't help but smile at him when he says, "I didn't want to
bother you.  You're not my mom or my girl friend--"

"I'm your friend, Mulder.  You know you can count on me, don't you?"
She pats the back of the sofa, emphasizing the import of her words.

Mulder dips his head, self-conscious and a little lost for words. 
He has great trust in this woman, especially after their adventure in
the Arctic.

"I... I didn't think I had the right to impose, Scully."

"It's not an imposition.  I wish I had thought to come over two days
ago."

"I've been okay."

"No, you haven't and I don't like the look of that ankle.  So...
let's move some of this debris and prop your foot up on the coffee
table so I can get the bandage off.  It's a good thing you have on
sweats."

Mulder raises his eyebrows.  "Coming on to me, Scully?" he quips as
he helps her move several items to the floor.

She looks to the heavens for strength, ignoring his question and
proceeding to unravel the bandage.  Mulder grimaces before she can
get it free of his ankle and she stops abruptly, looking at him with
compassion.

"Just a few more seconds, all right, Mulder?"

He nods his assent, trying to disguise the pain as she finishes her
task. He's unsuccessful; she can see his jaw tighten involuntarily as
agony returns.

"I'm going to get some ice from the freezer.  And then you are going
to stay immobile for the entire night, okay?" she says, her tone of
voice brooking no nonsense from her partner.

"Affirmative," he responds.

He's still in pain but he's immensely relieved--not only because
she's here to help him--but because she's probably not leaving too
soon.


*********************************
*********************************


"You used to drive me absolutely nuts when you pulled crap like
that, Mulder."

"Crap like what?  Leaving empty pizza boxes strewn about?  Watching
lousy flicks?  Going tinkle in my very own bathroom?" 

She pinches him, hard.  "You know what I mean.  Not taking care of
yourself.  Thinking you're invincible.  In other words, acting like a
man."

"Pot and kettle, Scully.  That's all I have to say to you.  If I had
money for every time you ever said the words, 'I'm fine,' to me, I'd
be a very rich man and would probably now own Australia."  He props
himself up on an elbow and grins down at her, knowing she can't
refute the many times her placid - and untrue - retort drove him
equally nuts.

She sighs, "Okay, we're both a couple of idiots... but you're my
idiot as much as I'm yours.  And haven't we improved over the years,
Mulder?  These days you hardly self-destruct anymore, and it's been
several years - well, months - since I've uttered 'I'm fine' to you."

"It's because we're older and wiser.  It's because now more than
ever we know the true value of human life... its rarity and how
easily it can all vanish at the snap of a finger or two.  We've both
lost so much, baby... but we've gained a hell of a lot, too."

"I concur on your reasoning concerning the 'older' part.  I don't
know how much wiser I've become."  She cuddles closer to him and
glides a caressing palm over his cheek, gazing up into hazel eyes
that have not dimmed in beauty one bit since the first day she saw
him.  "I only know that for so many years, I've had the honor of your
care and protection, your strength and your honesty.  It saved me
more than once, Mulder... saved my sanity.  More than once..."  


************************************
************************************


CHAPTER THREE

Care
By Erin M. Blair
E-Mail: eblair@sonic.net 
Rating: PG
Spoilers:  Beyond The Sea


Ever since her father passed away, Scully has felt the denial
striking at her from all sides. 

She still feels numb.  

She can't feel the pain that sweeps through her body. *Ahab can't
possibly be gone,* she thinks as she gets out of her car to visit
Mulder. She needs to be with Mulder now. She can't breathe. It's
still hard for her to go through the motions of every day living. 

All she wants to do is to go home and look at photo albums, to see
her father when he was alive. She knows the first stages of grief:
denial, anger, etc. She is certainly in the denial stage. When her
mother called her at home a week ago, the numbness started to flow
through her. She still remembers how rattled she felt when she saw
the ghostly image of her father, sitting in her chair, his mouth
uttering words that she couldn't make sense of. All she knows is that
her father, her Ahab, is gone from a massive coronary.

Scully remembers that her father was trying to tell her something
important, something that needed to be said. For the days that
followed, until now, she thought her father disapproved of her
decision to become an FBI agent and felt she should have started a
medical practice. She foolishly believed that he didn't love her
anymore after their heated argument. 

As she turns the knob to Mulder's hospital room, she knows that she
made the right decision not to see Luther Boggs. She knows the truth -
- the knowledge of her father's love was there all along. 

Scully walks into the hospital room, looking at her partner. He's in
bed, recovering from the gun shot wound. She carefully sits down on
the foot of his bed, looking at him. She is thankful that he is
alive, knowing that he is going to be fine. 

"Scully, I thought you were going to see Boggs."

"I... I wanted to see you, Mulder."

"I'm glad to see you, Scully. But you could have known the truth..."

Her mind keeps replaying the events in her head. "I was considering
Boggs. If he knew that I... I was your partner, he could have found
out everything he knew about me. About my father..." 

"Scully?" 

She rises and paces around his bed. When she looks into Mulder's
eyes she sees the concern ringing his features. All she wants to do
is to make sense of the whole thing, to deny her experience, and to
deny losing her father.  "'Beyond the Sea' was playing at my parents'
wedding. Visions of deceased loved ones are a common psychological
phenomena. If he knew that..."

Mulder interrupts her. His voice is full of compassion for her. He'd
like nothing better than to take the pain away. He knows why she came
to him, to escape the knowledge of her father's death, to escape from
hearing her father's last words for her. "Dana, after all you've
seen, after all the evidence, why can't you believe?"

She draws a deep breath, and she sits back down on his bed. She
knows the truth -- that she is scared of what she could have found
out from Boggs. She doesn't want to hear the words, for the fear is
too great for her. She isn't strong enough to believe. Maybe in a few
years, she will be able to believe.

But now?

She doesn't feel like she can. "I'm afraid. I'm afraid to believe."

"You couldn't face that fear. Even if it meant never knowing what
your father wanted to tell you?"

"But I do know."

"How?"

Scully looks at him, realizing that she doesn't need Luther Boggs to
convey what her father wanted to tell her. She already knows what he
wanted to say to her, that he's proud of her. Her father has always
loved her every day of her life. Nothing will ever change that. 

"He was my father."

Mulder nods and puts his hand on her shoulder, giving her the
comfort she needs. "It's all you need to know, Scully. He was your
father." A pause. "How are you holding up?"

"I don't know. It's positively unreal. When I go to my parents'...
well, Mom's house, I still expect to see him. I expected him there,"
she repeats. She can feel Mulder's hand on her shoulder. She draws
comfort from that warmth flowing through her body; the numbness seems
to be easing. 

But the pain remains in her heart. She doesn't want Mulder to see
her weakening. A solitary tear flows down her cheek and she
immediately wipes it away. A dam of tears is threatening to burst,
but she doesn't want to cry, not until she is in the safety of her
apartment. 

Mulder gently strokes Scully's cheek with his hand. "I wish I could
take all the pain away, Scully. I remember when I lost Samantha. I
couldn't talk; I couldn't even breathe. All I could feel was the
guilt over losing her. I never told her that I loved her. At least
you had the years of telling him you loved him.  Treasure those
memories. They'll always be with you forever."

She seems to be touched by these compassionate words from Mulder. He
helps her to understand that her father will always live on with her.
"Mulder..."

"What?"

"Thank you."

"I'll always be with you, Scully. I care for you. Don't you know
that? We've come a long way since you stepped into my office. You've
challenged me every step of the way. Before, I thought you were a
spy; you quickly changed my opinion of you. The more I come to know
you as a person, the more I come to like you. You're a great agent."
He gives a short pause as he gazes into his partner's eyes. He wants
to give her a hug, but decides against the idea considering that he's
still hooked up to the machines. That, and the fact that Scully never
seems to care for being touched. "I'm glad you're my partner."

"I'm glad you're mine, Mulder." She looks at her watch and then
stands, reluctantly. "It's almost time for me to leave."

"You know, I'll be released in a few days, Scully.  I need you to
take care of me when I'm released. The doctors don't want anything to
happen to me... if I'm alone in my apartment."

"Mulder..."

"Well?"

She gives him the first real smile that day, the first since her
father died. The smile gives the both of them promise that things
between them are easing up. "All right. I don't think it's wise of
you to recover at your apartment. You can stay in the guest room at
my apartment." 

They say their goodbyes as the hospital's intercom announces the end
of visiting hours. As Scully walks out of her partner's room, she
realizes how lucky she is to have a wonderful friend in Mulder.
Although she will never get over her father's death, she finally
knows that she has Mulder and her family to help her in the following
months ahead.

And it will be a long road ahead of her. 

Scully swings open the hospital's double doors. It is dark outside;
chilly for a cool December night. She knows she has to cling to the
notion that she will find the strength she needs to survive. 

The tears she so desperately held back are threatening to fall down
her cheeks. Once inside her car, she lets them flow like a cleansing
river. 
 

*************************************
*************************************
To be continued -
************************************
************************************

Part Two



Watery light is filtering through the old blinds at the window. 
He's pulled the covers up over them, not bothering for once to look
at the clock.  He knows they still have some time before they have to
rise and start their evening.  He also knows that if he's late, his
watch will be covered, no questions asked.  It's a grim tasking they
all face, day after day.  Some days are more grim than others.  When
one of them needs more time to regroup, to stabilize... the others
are happy to pitch in and assure each has what they need to keep
going, to stay strong.

Right now Scully feels the need to assure HIM.  Every now and then
the burden of their collective pasts comes pushing down on him, and
she can almost taste the recrimination he carries, even after so many
years.  That particular flavor is not unfamiliar to her, for she's
had her share.  Each time, he's been her anchor.  He's put his very
health at risk, to be that anchor for her.

And when in return all he asked of her was to support his belief,
even when in her heart she wasn't sure what to accept... she brought
that trust to the surface and kept them both afloat.


******************************************
******************************************


CHAPTER FOUR

Playbook
By ML
email: msnsc21@aol.com
Spoilers: Tooms


Playbook
by ML

Even though he asked her to come, Mulder doesn't expect to see
Scully until suddenly she's there, opening the passenger door.

He's very grateful for his partner's care.  He's spent so much time
alone, he's still getting used to the idea of someone sharing the
burden.  Even when she disagrees with him, she backs him up, and he
never expected to have that on this detail.

The air in the car is ripe with possibilities as they discuss the
case and Mulder's unorthodox methods.  Scully's heart goes out to her
stubborn, driven partner.  She can see how tired he is.  She can also
see he won't give up.

She's been quoting regulations at him so much the past couple of
days he's started quoting back chapter and verse.  She knows it
annoys him, but she hopes some of it might sink in.  She fears for
him, for his job of course but more viscerally, for his safety.

She keeps trying to maintain the balance between personal and
professional with Mulder, but she's come to care for her partner in
ways she is only vaguely conscious of.  She won't let herself think
too much about this.

Nonetheless, his first name slips off her lips as she tries to
reason with him.  His reaction is immediate and quelling.  "Mulder,"
he corrects her, then more softly, "Mulder."

So he's aware of it as well.  He spins some line about making his
parents call him Mulder, but she sees right through him.  She doesn't
call him on it, though.  He's right; better to maintain
professionalism.  Maybe she also needs the barrier of last names.

The next moment he disarms her with his concern for her.  Despite
his own disregard for the rules, he doesn't expect her to go down
with him.  It doesn't matter.  She's already decided whose side she's
on.  It's high time she told him.

"I wouldn't put myself on the line for anyone but you," she says.

The atmosphere inside the car has gone from ripe to charged. As soon
as the words leave her lips, she realizes that what she's said could
be interpreted in a variety of ways, not all of them acceptable. 
From the look on Mulder's face, he realizes this, too.

Oh, Scully, Mulder thinks.  Now you've gone and done it.  How can I
get out of this and still maintain my cool exterior?  Do I even want
to?

Scully sees Mulder's expression soften and he starts to speak. 
She's not sorry she said the words.  Not yet, anyway.  In a moment
she'll know for sure.

Is that panic he sees on her face?  Not Scully.  He sees surprise at
hearing her own words, something resembling regret, and just a spark
of... something more before she gets hold of herself.  She manages
not to touch his hand as she hands over his drink.

"If there's iced tea in there, could be love," he says, giving her a
mock-sultry look.  His lips hover over the straw, giving her a chance
to reply.

He's giving her a chance to back down, she realizes.  "Must be fate,
Mulder," she says gamely with a trace of real disappointment.  "Root
beer."

He makes his own little gesture of regret.  She knows he will
discover the truth as soon as he tastes his drink.

Scully goes back to her car to continue the stakeout alone as Mulder
drives away.  He finishes his iced tea before he's a block away.

They will both think of this night from time to time.  Not as a
missed opportunity, but as an acknowledgment, and as a promise for
the future.


********************************
********************************


"Could be love, baby."

She grins at him.  "Yes, it could be.  Do you have any idea how hard
my heart was pounding when you said that to me?  With all of your
teasing and innuendoes, you had me going more than once."

"Good.  Kept you on your toes.  A good FBI agent lives on their
toes.  Or in your case, those damned sexy three and four inch 'fuck
me' heels..."

"I hope they drove you mad with lust, Agent Mulder."  

Cheeky, in the extreme, he thinks - and he adores her when she is,
absolutely adores her when she can manage to keep all of the monsters
at bay simply by being herself, the tough professional with the
tender heart.  The one who understands his need to joke and make
light of life when it's at its utter worst.

They have seen its worst... and come out on top, simply by being
there for one another.


************************************
************************************


CHAPTER FIVE

Life With The Lights On
By Rae
Email:  ultimatexffan@hotmail.com 
Spoilers:  Irresistible


January, 1995

Safe.  It's a word so many take for granted.  Parents often slay the
closet and under-bed demons to allay their children's fears.  But
once a person outgrows the footy pajamas, there is little in life
that actually causes teeth-chattering, bed-wetting fear.

Scully isn't afraid.  To be so would mean that she isn't strong;
that she isn't capable of doing her job with the utmost professional
detachment.  And that is unacceptable.

Long after the police leave and the EMTs pack up their unused
medical kits, Scully stands in the darkened house, enveloped in
Mulder's arms.  She had stopped shaking about the same time that her
legs went numb, but is loathe to leave the comfort and support of
Mulder's embrace.

Her sobs have quieted, leaving her eyes dry and itchy.  She's
reluctant to speak, sure her voice will warble and crack.  Instead,
she takes a deep breath and gently unwinds her arms from around
Mulder's middle.

She looks up at him, bracing herself for the look of pity she is
sure will be etched on his face.  As she raises her eyes, Mulder
gently takes her face between his hands.  He uses a moment to study
her, making sure she isn't going to break down again, reaches behind
her and unties the scarf that Pfaster had used to gag her, hanging
around her neck.

"The scratches don't look too bad, Scully.  I still would have felt
better if you'd have let the EMTs check you out, but I think you'll
live."

He smiles to encourage her, but she feels the chill of death run
down her spine, nonetheless.  She has once again escaped its grasping
claws, but doesn't want to tempt fate with ill-considered jokes.

"I'll put some antibiotic cream on them.  I'm sure I've got
something in my bag at the hotel."

"Let's get going, then."

They arrive back at the motel long after all the other guests have
given up on the night, conceding to sleep.

Scully stands motionless while Mulder unlocks her door.  Once
inside, she walks through the small room, methodically turning on
every light - 
including the red heat lamp in the bathroom.

Forgetting that Mulder is still standing in the open doorway, Scully
opens the water taps, letting hot water spill into the tub, steaming
the room almost immediately.   She stands under the spray for eons,
hoping to wash the evil away with the dirt that swirls down the
drain.  When the water begins to run cold, she shuts off the faucet
and wraps herself in a flimsy towel that has been bleached again and
again in a vain attempt to disinfect the grime of day-to-day people
passing through.

When she emerges, all pink and shiny from her shower, Scully notices
that Mulder has retreated to his own room, but left the connecting
door ajar - in case she wants to talk, she supposes.  She ignores the
invitation.  Wrapped only the wet towel, she leaves all the lights on
and crawls between the sheets.  She isn't afraid of the dark, but
knows she has a better chance of defending herself if she can see her
attacker.

~~~~~~

The flight home is uneventful.  Scully has been too preoccupied with
focusing inward to remember that she's afraid of flying.  She has
Mulder drop her at home, assuring him she's fine and just needs to
get some sleep.  He promises to take care of the report this time and
tells her he'll see her at the office in the morning.

Even though it's two in the afternoon, the apartment is too dark, so
she repeats a ritual started just the night before, walking through
each room and turning on every lamp she owns.  With the place so
bright, she notices the dust that has been collecting for weeks. 
Three hours later, her suitcase is unpacked, her fridge is clean, her
apartment Pine-Sol fresh, and despite her overwhelming fatigue,
Scully can't sleep.  It's too early for bed, anyway, she tells
herself.  Even if she hadn't slept a wink the night before.

She pulls her gun out of her nightstand drawer, wraps an old blanket
around her shoulders and sits on the sofa, facing the door.  Whatever
decides to come and get her, she's prepared this time.

When her phone trills she jumps, just a little, before reaching out
for the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Scully."

"Mulder.  What's goin' on?"

"I'm hungry."

"So eat something."

"Well, that's the thing.  I ordered this pizza - loaded with
everything. But there's no way I can finish it all.  Wanna help me?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Mulder.  By the time you got here, it'll be
cold.  
Just enjoy your dinner while it's still hot.  Hold on a sec. 
Someone's at the door."

Scully opens her front door to Mulder, standing in the hall with a
pizza box in his hands.  She looks at him like she wants to kill him,
so before she can say anything, he launches into his defense.

"I know I said it's loaded with everything, but I also know that
you've been cutting back on your meat consumption.  So, half the pie
is covered with 'shrooms and green peppers.  You know I won't eat
that crap and it would be a waste to throw it away since you they're
your favorite toppings.  Whaddya say?"

She stands there for a moment making him squirm as she decides
whether or not to let him in.  There are still so many hours left in
the night and she really doesn't want to spend them alone.  Again.

"Come on in, Mulder.  I'll get the plates."

It's not because she's scared, she tells herself.  She hasn't eaten
since the bagel she choked down this morning and the pizza smells so
damn good.

"Thanks.  The place looks great, Scully, but I thought you were
going to get some rest."

"I was resting.  Then you came over."

It's then that Mulder notices the blanket on the sofa.  He also sees
her gun sitting on the table, safety off.  Well, if resting means
standing on guard for the next Creepy, it looks as if Scully is on
her way to being well rested.

"Well, you know me and my timing.  I brought a movie, too."  Mulder
holds up the box so she can read the title.

"'When Harry Met Sally?'  A pizza from my favorite neighborhood
joint safe enough to eat without clogging arteries, AND a movie that
appeals to my chick-flick tendencies?  What gives, Mulder?"  Scully
asks as she walks back into the living room with plates and iced tea.

Mulder puts the pizza on the coffee table, pops the tape into the
VCR and loads up their plates.  He indicates for Scully to sit at one
end of the sofa, sits down at the other, and pulls her feet into his
lap.

"Nothing gives.  I just thought you might need some light, romantic
comedy. Something you could watch with the lights on."

Scully looks at him, prepared to go on the defense.  She notices his 
cautious smile and the way his eyes are pleading with her to just go
with it.  She nods slightly, picks up her pizza and settles back
against the cushions.

The pizza is devoured as the movie plays.  Scully even filches one of 
Mulder's slices, loaded with everything - including anchovies.  When
the credits roll, she assures him she'll be fine.  Really.  He
carries their dishes to the kitchen and says goodnight.  She follows
him to the door and says 'thank you' and he pretends to not know what
she's thanking him for.  She locks up the apartment and shuts the
lights on her way to her bedroom.  She climbs into bed and falls
asleep almost instantly.

It was just pizza and a movie.  He rubbed her feet and laughed with
her.  He didn't ridicule when she cried.  And even though he called
her bluff, he did it in a way she could live with.  And in the end,
the results are the same.  

She is safe.  She has nothing to be afraid of.


**************************
****************************


"Cold?"

She's burrowed into his side even closer, and the tip of her nose is
icy as it presses into his neck.  There's a pathetic excuse for a sun
hanging low in the sky, no doubt doing nothing to warm up what has
turned out to be one damn cold winter's day.  They have four blankets
on their bed, but nothing seems to help when the gaps around the
single window and the old metal door let in cold air.

She sighs against his skin.  "A little.  But I don't want to get up
and bang on the thermostat.  I don't want you to get up, either.  Not
until we absolutely have to."

"Nice to know I can be of some use to you, baby.  Mulder the
furnace.  Existing merely to assure you remain one hot mama."

"Well, I demand a lot of our partnership, you know.  More than just
food and a roof over my head, such as it is.  Besides, you never
minded being a human furnace for me, did you?  Matter of fact, I
remember a time when having me throw my freezing body into your arms
made your night."

"Oh, hell.  You're not gonna bring that up again, are you?  Every
few years you just have to remind me.  Just remember this, Scully: 
you came to me.  You were the one who tried to crawl into my clothes,
with me still in them.  You were the one who tested the limits of my
gentlemanly tendencies."

Oh, bite me, Mulder..."

"I almost did, if you recall."


******************************************
******************************************


CHAPTER SIX

Mutualism
by Oracle
Email:apollostemple@yahoo.com
Spoilers:  None
www.invidiosa.com/oracle 
(Special thanks to Jody, for her ideas about season two M&S)


Snow floats through the forest, each flake glinting in the
starlight.  It settles across Scully's face and hair, as she breathes
it in with the sharp night air, crystals disintegrating on her
tongue. 

Cold and beautiful, but so fragile, crunching underfoot, crushed
into the frozen mud. Come spring, it will all be washed away.

Fragile, beautiful, cold. This is how the other agents see her. She
doesn't know when it started. Maybe with Jack Willis. His ring,
presented on bended knee, had shone like faerie gold in the
candlelight. A trick, ready to turn into shackles the minute she slid
it onto her finger. She couldn't bring herself to say yes. Five
minutes passed by, his hope fading to bitterness, before she fled
from the restaurant. 

She didn't do it because she was cold. She did it because she was
afraid of becoming cold, of being made hard and brittle by marriage
to a man she didn't love enough. Frozen to the bone, the core. 

She's never liked the cold. The dull prick of it, the tingle in her
fingers. The creeping insect-feet feel of rain, the needles of sleet.
Even the snow, on a wonderland night like this, brings a painful
chill. 

~~~~~~

Every year, in mid-winter, the FBI sends a group of agents out into
the Virginian wilderness for five days, to participate in a team-
building, sharing and caring, love-thy-neighbor retreat, involving
the development of survival skills. 

Or, as Mulder put it, "A cheerful dose of sadism."

According to Skinner, members of the group are selected at random.
Mulder, of course, blames an international conspiracy. Men who stand
around in dark trenchcoats, in dark parking lots at night, muttering
through a haze of cigarette smoke--What shall we do with Agent Mulder
and his pretty partner this week? 

Scully knows she shouldn't find it amusing. But it's good to find
*something* amusing, especially at one in the morning, outside in the
bitter cold, three hours after the untimely demise of her radiator.

~~~~~~

She is half asleep when it happens. A wheezing cough, followed by a
spluttering death rattle. So, she drags herself out of bed, takes a
long, hot shower, pulls on five layers of clothing, and uses her
blankets as a cocoon. 

Nothing is working. The cold seeps through cracks in the material,
finding its way to her skin, and then to her heart. 

She's often heard fire described as a living being, a presence. Cold
is the same, but more insidious. You can't see it, as creeps up on
you and sinks its icy claws into your skin. You can only feel the
grip of it, the itching agony. 

After two hours of silent, half-frozen, half-hysterical insomnia,
she wraps her worn blankets around her shoulders, pulls on her
snowshoes, and strides out into the night, heading for Mulder's
cabin. In her icicle-like state, she vows to sleep on his floor if
she has to. She's willing to hang upside down from his ceiling,
blankets folded around her body like batwings, if he'll let her stay.

~~~~~~

Now that she's almost there, she's having second thoughts.
Yesterday's argument is still ringing through her head, and she
doesn't know what to say to him. 

After all, she started the fight, using her own irritation as an
incendiary device. In the heat of the moment her words seemed
justified, but looking back on it now she feels nothing but shards of
shame. There's no excuse for the things she said. There's a reason,
but there's no excuse. None of this is Mulder's fault.

Three months were stolen from her, leaving a blank, silent scar in
her life. A violation. Her only memories of this time replay as
nightmares, forgotten when she jolts awake, chilled and feverish,
mumbling prayers. 

But she's managed to keep fighting, side by side with Mulder. Four
months have passed since her return, and she hasn't wasted a day. She
refuses to give up. Not because of what they've taken from her, but
because fundamentally, they've taken nothing at all.

Mulder doesn't see it that way. He sees her weaknesses, now, instead
of her strengths. Or at least, that's how it seems. He hovers,
alarmed by her shallowest paper cuts. He was so much easier to handle
when he wanted to push her buttons, to push her out of his life. Now
he touches her gently, speaking softly, intimately. He looks at her
with dark, warm eyes, as though he wants to wrap her in velvet and
hide her away. 

Before her disappearance, she and Mulder were partners first, then
friends. Buddies. Nothing more, nothing less. There wasn't even a
mutual attraction. It was simple and comfortable, and she'd become
accustomed to it. 

Now, she doesn't know what to think. It's as though they've become
entwined, sharing parts of each other like two trees grown together
in a forest. One can't exist without the other. Their relationship
has evolved into something inexplicable. She knows it, he knows it,
but they never talk about it.

~~~~~~

Thankfully Mulder is still awake, his lamp casting a pale golden
glow through the curtains. She raps twice at the door with her elbow,
huddled into herself, shivering.

He gets out of bed, blankets rustling, and pads toward the door.
When he reaches it, he stops and hisses, "Scully?"

"Yeah," she says, teeth chattering, "it's me."

When he pulls it open, she automatically steps into his heat, and he
wraps his arms around her, embrace stiff with surprise. 

"Scully, what's wrong?"

God, she thinks, nuzzling his shoulder. God, he's so warm. She
hadn't realized how desperate she was for the feel of him, the sweet
warmth of him. She can't bring herself to speak. It feels too good. 

He tightens his hold on her for a moment, rubbing his nose against
her hair, dropping a kiss to her temple. Then he reaches behind her,
shutting the door and backing her against it. 

She closes her eyes as his body presses into hers, all of him
against her. Full body contact. She's never felt this before, and she
wishes she wasn't so exhausted, so overwrought with cold and fatigue.
He's kissing the curve of her ear, and she realizes, groggily, that
he's gotten the wrong idea. Or the right idea. 

Either way, she finds herself pushing him away.

"Mulder," she murmurs, looking up into his dilated pupils. He's
staring at her lips, transfixed, and suddenly she's terrified.
"Mulder, it's nothing. My heater's broken."

A second later he's expressionless, standing three feet away with
downcast eyes, awkward and apologetic. "Scully, I'm -"

With one sharp wave of her hand, she cuts him off. She doesn't want
a continuation of this situation, or a confession, or even an act of
contrition. She just wants to sleep and forget. 

"I was wondering if I could stay here for tonight. I'll sleep on the
floor." 

Mulder chuckles wryly, still not looking at her. "Don't be
ridiculous. You'll take the bed, and I'll take the floor."

The bed is rumpled with Mulder's imprint, its blankets tossed
carelessly to one side, its sheets crooked and wrinkled. She spies
the corner of a glossy magazine, peeking out from beneath the
pillows. A dog-eared copy of Kafka's 'The Trial' lies open on the
nightstand, next to a pile of sunflower shells. Mulder's warmth and
scent seem to linger over everything, touching everything.

She swallows. "Look, I don't want to kick you out of bed." 

"Scully..." he replies, shaking his head, "do you really think I'll
let you sleep on the floor?" 

This is impossible. Irrational. Insane. In other words, a completely
ordinary discussion by their standards, and she isn't going to back
down. 

"Do you really think I'll let *you* sleep on the floor?"

Mulder turns his eyes to her, catching her in the middle of an open-
mouthed yawn. 

"Maybe we should both sleep on the floor..." he suggests softly,
avoiding the obvious solution.

It's left up to her, to spell it out. To make it real. She speaks
through another yawn, trying to make the words sound casual, "Or
maybe we could share the bed."

Mulder drops his eyes, his mouth turning up at the corners. It's a
flicker of movement, a half-second gesture, but it tells her
everything she needs to know. 

He wants this. He wants to hold her in his arms, all night long. He
doesn't want words tonight. He wants her heartbeat, her safety, her
lifeblood and warmth enfolded with his, until morning. One night of
watching over her. One night when he won't lie awake, wondering,
fearing, where she might be. 

This is something she can give him. Peace of mind, just for one
night. And maybe, one night will make all the difference.

~~~~~~

Scully strips off her extra layers while Mulder neatens and
straightens the bed, sliding his magazine behind the mattress when he
thinks she isn't looking. 

Then, without glancing at each other, without speaking, they climb
in. She on the left, he on the right. They tug up the covers at the
same time, quick and nervous, leaving tense, deliberate inches
between their bodies. Lying on their backs, staring at the cracked,
beige ceiling, they wonder how to proceed. 

Mulder reaches over to switch off the lamp. 

The starlight-streaked darkness makes everything simpler.

When they reach out for each other, her wrist catches his nose, his
thumb pokes her belly, and they laugh, softly, before they are
holding, circling one another. Breathing together. 

He kisses across her forehead, telling her everything about how much
he cares for her, how much he needs her, with the sweet, slow press
of his lips. She responds by nuzzling in further, holding him closer,
and she hopes he understands. She feels the same way.

Pressed to his heartbeat, for the first time in years she feels
truly, completely warm. Her lips curl up at the corners, and she
realizes just how much she wanted this, needed this, too.


**********************************
**********************************


"What are you thinking?  You have this little crease right between
your eyes."

He shakes his head, unwilling to say, knowing that if he starts
mentioning names the delicate balance of blame versus honor she's
trying to eradicate will just tilt back into the negative shadows. 
Besides, it's not as if it's the first time he's kept his thoughts
from her.  He's already feeling that old burden, felt it today as he
does each day.  He's usually better at hiding it.

It's just right now, this moment... with her hair tumbling over one
shoulder in a mass of waves and curls, and the daylight slanting in
just the right way across the bed... she looks so much like -

"My sister.  Am I right?  Don't deny it, Mulder.  And don't think
that after all this time I can't read you like a book."

He sighs and cuddles her closer, one hand combing through her hair. 
"Yes.  I was.  Don't ask me why, Scully.  I suppose I could say your
hair reminded me.  It's gotten so long, and I know what little
humidity we get around here really brings out the curl in it.  Mostly
I guess it's because I'm remembering a few times when talking about
incidents in our past kept us focused in the present."

"Mulder, I don't mind remembering, not about family.  I want to
remember them.  I want to recall the fun things we did, the love we
felt as a family unit.  I want you to do the same, for I know all
your family reminisces weren't painful.  Your mother played with you
and your sister; you told me.  Your dad did things with you, too.  I
remember swapping family tales with you, more than once.  I remember
those tales gave me no small measure of comfort."

"Right back at you, Scully.  Your memories of sibling antics always
made me smile..."


*****************************************
*****************************************
to be continued
************************************
************************************

Part Three




CHAPTER SEVEN

One Another's Best
By Mimic117
Email:  Mimic117@yahoo.com
Spoilers:  Paper Clip


He finds her at their bench, the one where he'd met her mother while
Scully was missing.  The one where the former partners talked in
secret when they were officially separated.  They had each retreated
here at different times in the past, seeking solitude while their
newest emotional wound began to knit closed.

She'd been restless all day, unable to settle on one task; edgy,
snappish.  He'd known it was too soon for her to be back at work
after losing her sister, but she insisted -- as he knew she would. 
When she announced her desire to take a long lunch, Mulder knew that
she was planning to go off and brood.  He also knew she really
shouldn't be alone.  

That was over an hour ago.  So he's come looking for her, hoping
that he can at least be there if she needs someone to lean on.

"Is this seat taken?"

She shakes her head but doesn't look at him as he sits down.  

The sun reflects off the water, filling their silence with dazzling
light that doesn't quite reach into the shadows of their thoughts. 
The quiet stretches out for minutes on end, not uncomfortable, but
not restful, either.  It startles him when she finally speaks.

"I miss her, Mulder."

He places his hand on her sleeve.

"I know."

She breathes in raggedly once, regaining control almost immediately.
Then she clears her throat before speaking again.

"Missy and I liked to play games when we were supposed to be
sleeping.  It drove our parents crazy."

She doesn't say any more for several seconds, so he turns toward her
and asks, "What kind of games?"

The corner of her mouth quirks up, just the tiniest bit.  No one
else would notice, but he does.

"Stupid games, really.  I think all we wanted to do is prove that we
didn't have to listen to them."

He nods.

"Yeah, Samantha and I used to do that, too.  We thought our parents
didn't know what we were up to, but we were just fooling ourselves."

Scully looks over at him finally, the quirk in her lips a little
bigger.

"There was this one game we really liked.  We'd play it for hours,
until Mom got fed up and yelled at us to go to sleep.  Then we'd lie
in bed and giggle together until we dropped off in mid-giggle."

She stops talking and waits.  She knows his curiosity won't let her
quit, and he doesn't disappoint her.

"So fess up.  What was this special game?  Was it something kinky?"

Her eyebrow rises as high as it can go.

"We were kids, Mulder.  Of course it wasn't kinky."

"A guy can hope, can't he?"

She huffs a small laugh, the first she's produced in days.  Exactly
the reaction he was looking for.  

"So what was this innocent game?" he asks.

She turns back to face the gleaming water, but the quirk grows into
a genuine smile.

"For a long time, we shared an old bed that was higher off the floor
than most beds.  When we first got it, I needed a step-stool to climb
onto the mattress."

She glances over at him and says, "Don't even think about it."

His wide, innocent eyes don't fool her, but he doesn't say anything,
so she looks back at the water and continues.

"First, we'd throw our pillows on the floor to one side of the bed. 
Then, we would cross our legs into the lotus position, like you'd do
for yoga, and try to scoot off the bed without letting our legs
uncross."  

Mulder's chuckle makes her turn toward him again.  His eyes are
shining with mirth.  

"Don't laugh," she admonishes.  "It was a lot harder than it sounds.
Plus we eventually decided to try getting back into the bed with our
legs crossed, but it couldn't be done.  Sometimes, Missy made it to
the floor without uncrossing her legs, but then hers were longer than
mine.  I didn't stand a chance.  Neither of us ever made it back into
the bed that way.  But it was fun."

Scully looks back at the water and her tone becomes wistful.

"I miss those days sometimes."

They become quiet again for several minutes.  He shifts on the bench
and sits up straighter.  

"My dad built me a tree house one summer," he says.  "We worked on
it together weekends and every night he was home for three weeks.  I
marked them on the calendar."

She moves her arm so that his hand slides down her sleeve and slips
into hers.  He leans a little closer, pressing solidly against her
shoulder, creating a spot of warmth where they touch.  

"How big was it?" she asks, letting her own curiosity have free reign.

"Big enough for three or four kids to sleep on the floor."

"That must have been a lot of work."

He turns toward her and smiles.  

"It was.  But it was fun, too.  Dad taught me how to cut boards with
a hand saw, and he even let me pound in nails.  He didn't take out
the crooked ones, either.  By the time we were done, I was actually
driving them straight."

He faces forward again, squinting against the glare off the water.

"I started looking forward working on it.  It wasn't just the fact
that I was allowed to use the tools.  We talked while we worked, too.
For once, I had my father all to myself, and I loved it."

"What did you talk about?"

He shrugs.

"Lots of things.  Dad came from a family of ship's carpenters, and
he had his grandfather's tools.  We used the planes for smoothing the
surface of the wood, rasps to carve out niches for the branches under
the floor -- he even let me make holes in the boards with the hand-
cranked drill just for the fun of it."

She squeezes his hand.

"That sounds nice, Mulder.  How old were you?"

"I turned eight that fall.  When we got the tree house done, Dad let
me invite a couple of friends over for a sleep-out.  We hoisted our
sleeping bags up by tying them to a rope on a pulley.  We formed a
human chain and passed chips, soda and candy bars up the ladder. 
Eddie ate so much he threw up on Alan's sleeping bag during the night
and we had to toss it over the side.  That tree house was a huge hit
with my friends.  The next few years were a lot of fun, until we
outgrew it.  Sometimes, I wish... "

"Yeah," she sighs.  "Me, too."

They continue to sit quietly.  Around them, people walk by without a
glance in their direction.  The sun moves a little closer toward the
horizon and shadows slowly stretch out across the ground.  The
silence is no longer restless.  It is tinged with regrets -- promises
not kept, words unsaid.  But there is a feeling of hope, a lifting of
the spirit that has nothing to do with the bright sunlight.  

"You'll be okay, Scully," he says.

"Will I?"

"It'll take a while, but yeah, you will.  You're strong.  Stronger
than anyone else I know."

She leans her head against his shoulder and squeezes his hand again.

"What about you, Mulder?  Will you be okay?"

"Sure I will," he answers.  "I've got you."

She nods and snuggles closer into his side.  He lets go of her hand
and lifts his arm to place it around her shoulders and gather her
in.  

The sun glides farther toward night, but they don't notice as they
sit together for a little while longer.  


*******************************
*******************************


There's a spot of silence in the room, each of them in thought about
this or that, and yet in sync with each other.  It has always been
the one thing that nobody who knows them - or knew them years ago
when they were partners - has been able to describe or understand. 
Words were never completely necessary, not once they defined that
vital link to one another, early in their relationship.  In fact,
they could be saying something so completely different from what
their eyes - and hearts - were relaying.  It only got stronger as the
years collected between them.  

His murmur is warm against her temple.  "Does anything scare you
anymore, Scully?"

She can't help but smile, for he has just expressed verbally exactly
what she'd wondered, about him.  Their current world is the stuff of
other peoples' nightmares.  In a little while they'll both gear up
and walk straight into it.  And yet, here they are thinking about
what might scare each other.  It's just sad enough to be amusing...

"You mean, anything outside the door?  I'd be stupid not to feel
some kind of fear, wouldn't I?  Fear keeps a person aware and
cautious.  A dose of healthy fear is much better than a sense of
false security."  She stretches against him, slipping one leg over
his as she nestles her head under his chin.  She fears what's beyond
their room.  But what scares her is something quite different.  When
she voices that thought aloud, he nods.  He understands the
difference as well.  And he has a feeling she's going to remind him
of a moment he'd just as soon forget...

"What really scares me - and thank God you don't do it as much as
you used to, Mulder - is when you let your bravery threaten your
life; when your decision to take matters into your own hands almost
costs you so very dearly.  That's scarier to me than anything we have
to face out on line."

"Yeah, but you always saved me, didn't you?  You always pumped that
amazing caring of yours right into me, and in that instant, I'd be
invincible - because of you..."


****************************************
****************************************


CHAPTER EIGHT

Connection
By ML
Email:  msnsc21@aol.com
Spoilers:  Pusher


February, 1996

Mulder puts his gun in Scully's hands and covers them with his,
keeping the connection between them as long as possible.  She can
barely look at him.  He jokes a little, forcing a painful smile from
her, all the while thinking <this may be the last time I get to touch
her>.

One last squeeze of her hands and he stands up.  "Let's get this
show on the road," he says.

~~~~~~

Even as he walks through the hospital, Scully's with him.  Her voice
in his ear makes it possible for him to go on.  It's as though she
truly is beside him with her hand on his arm, keeping him grounded.

~~~~~~

<oh god oh god oh god what's she doing here>  clangs in his mind,
white noise to Modell's insistent presence in his head.

He can't look at her.  He can't take his focus off Modell for a
moment.  If Scully's voice is a guiding touch, Modell's is a fist,
pummeling him, forcing him.  Pushing him.  Until now, he hadn't
realized how apt the term is.  It's like being pushed under water.

"I'm gonna kill you Modell," he grits out. Scully is trying to reach
him but he has to close her out if he's to keep Modell at bay.

Modell delivers a last punch but at the same second Scully makes her
move.  For that split second, he's filled with Scully -- her fear,
her determination, and her love.

Yes.  Her love.  He feels immersed in it.  Not the drowning
sensation that Modell created in him, but a surrounding warmth.  He
can't even begin to describe it when suddenly he's lost it.

He's not sure at first if he's imagining the alarm bells or if
they're really ringing outside his head.  At last the controlling
pressure has been removed, leaving him limp and exhausted.  He's
barely aware of his actions until he hears Scully's voice again.  He
still can't look at her.  He holds out his gun and she takes it from
him.

~~~~~~

Mulder stares and stares at Modell in the cold blue room.  He feels
bereft.  He's an empty vessel now; not due to Modell's absence, but
due to missing Scully.  Had he really felt what he felt?  Where else
would he have gotten the strength needed to resist Modell?

He'd give anything to feel that again.  To feel so connected to
another human being.  To Scully.

The door opens and admits light and Scully.  He can't tell the two
apart.  Scully *is* light.  She comes to stand beside him, and
there's a trace of the connection he felt before.  He reaches out to
her, but only in his mind.

Scully does him one better: she reaches for his hand.  Her fingers
brushing against his are his lifeline, and he holds on to them.

He feels less empty now.  He allows Scully to lead him out into the
light.


*************************
*************************


She surprises him with an especially sweet, lingering kiss on his
cheek, and he shoots a quizzical look her way when she moves away and
smiles at him.

"What was that for?  Not that I mind."

"Just because, Mulder.  You're my own personal caregiver, do you
know that?  And you've rarely complained.  When I think of all the
times I played the world's worst patient... you always held your
temper.  You always let me rant and rave, either in public or in
private.  Doctors make the absolute worst patients, yet you only got
stern when you had to."  She watches a blush steal across his
recently-kissed cheek, and stifles a giggle.  At this moment he looks
like he's about twelve years old... She could just squeeze the
stuffing out of him, and so because she can, she does. 

"Ooomph!  I can see that your gratitude runs to mangling your
significant other - and giving new meaning to the term, 'main
squeeze'."  He hugs her back, not as tightly but with every bit as
much ardor, then adds, "It's been my honor to be whatever caregiver
you've allowed, Scully.  Even when you hated being cared for."

"Even when I pissed you off?  Even when in my very arrogance I fell
flat on my face, more than once?  Even then?"

He kisses her tenderly, runs a gentle hand down her back, lingering
low where once a reminder of her so-called arrogance almost did them
in.  "Yes.  Even then..." 


***************************************
***************************************


CHAPTER NINE

Better Late Than Never 
By Shelba 
Email: Kits1013@aol.com
Spoilers:  Never Again, Missing Scene/Post ep 


Hoover Building
January 27

Mulder's back is ramrod straight as he steps past his partner into
the office. It's a new week and he hasn't seen Scully since she
ditched him at the airport after the "incident", AKA, 'Scully's Great
Tattoo Adventure', in Philadelphia.

"Welcome back. You look a lot better than you did in the hospital. 
And congratulations for making a personal appearance in the X-files
for the second time."  He tugs the file cabinet drawer open with a
little more force than necessary and continues, "It's a world's
record." 

Scully remains quiet, just standing and looking around. She doesn't
have the energy to fight and knows from experience to let him rant.
He's always easier to deal with when he's vented a bit. 

Mulder continues, almost biting the name out. "Ed Jerse is in
custody at the St. John's burn facility in Philadelphia. Traces of
ergot were found in his bloodstream, as in yours, but not to the
degree that should cause hallucinogenic ergotism." 

She eases onto a chair, being careful to avoid pressure on her back. 
Any moment, she thinks, he'll claim Ed's tattoo is possessed and
offer to hire a snake handler in case hers gets out of line.

Mulder drones on. "He'll undergo psychiatric evaluation after
recovering from burn trauma. Comrade Svo has been shut down; he was
under investigation for having connections to my friend Pudovkin.
Case closed on Boris Badenov, which is really a shame because I was
thinking of having an "N.Y." tattooed on my ass to commemorate the
Yankees' World Series victory. Better late than never, huh?"

She resists the impulse to get a scalpel and carve the initials for
him. She's really puzzled by this antagonistic attitude. He had
called her every day she was off and he sounded pretty normal, if a
bit unsure of what he wanted to say. She hadn't been talkative, and
wasn't in the mood to see him, but she hadn't hung up on him or
anything, so she doesn't know what crawled up his ass. 

Mulder had tried to keep his calls to safe subjects. The first day,
he asked if she needed anything from the grocery or pharmacy. She
seemed a bit annoyed at that question. Somehow, she got the idea that
he said she was PMS-ing. He hasn't stuttered that much since Susie
Simpson asked to see his 'thing' in fourth grade. Leave it to Scully
to inspire him to new lows.

The second day he offered to pick up her dry cleaning. She told him,
since she hadn't been in any exploding manure plants or swamps
lately, her suits were in good shape. He'd concluded she wasn't in
the mood to talk, so he hung up, wondering if maybe she'd lied about
that whole PMS thing.

Once or twice he called and asked her questions about various cases. 
On the third day, he tried to ask her how she really was.  Of
course, she was "fine." 

Scully shifts uncomfortably. Her tattoo is stinging more today than
it did the day she had it done; she's thirsty and feels warm. She's
unable to assess her tattoo very well, and hopes she doesn't have an
infection setting in. She listens as Mulder's voice rises and falls.
Now that he's snarked a bit about the Philly case, he's trying to act
as though everything is normal. He's failing miserably.

"The uh, field office in Dallas is uh, receiving reports of the
image of a missing child appearing on a blank billboard outside of
Arlington..."  

Sitting again, he opens a new file; then looks at her. "....So....
All this, because I've ... because I didn't get you a desk?" 

Her voice is soft, the tone almost dismissive. She meets his eyes
and lifts her chin.  "Not everything is about you, Mulder. This is my
life." 

"Yes but it's m - -" His voice trails off to nothing when she looks
at him sharply. The tension in the room can be sliced.

She fingers the rose petal she had left on his desk and wonders why
he still has it. She opens her mouth to ask, then closes it when
dizziness washes through her and whatever she was going to say is
swept away.

"Scully?" The "too-casual' tone is gone from his voice, and he
sounds very far away. As everything goes black, she thinks she hears
Mulder calling her again. 

Mulder watches with shock as Scully slumps in her chair and begins
to slide. He launches himself forward; his desk chair flies off and
crashes into something, somewhere behind him. He reaches Scully right
before she hits the floor.  Her chair didn't fall over when she
pitched forward so he tries to get her back in it. It's an impossible
thing, so he gives up and heedless of his dress pants, sits cross-
legged on the floor and pulls her onto his lap.

"Scully." He pats her face and watches for a reaction. Her skin is
hot, she is pale and her breaths are quick and shallow.  "Hey,
partner," he pats her face again. "Come on, Scully. Wake up." He can
barely hear his own voice for the pulse pounding in his ears. He
thinks of all the diseases that are transmitted by blood exposure and
he feels sick. He's going to make sure she's all right.

He hates the idea of laying her on the hard floor, but he has to
call for help. He grimaces; his cell phone is in his coat pocket on
the back of his chair. The chair is somewhere across the room and the
desk phone is out of reach. "Sorry about this, but I'm going to have
to put you down."

He moves to ease her onto the floor, one hand cradling her head, the
other supporting her shoulders, when she stirs. "Mul-er?" She blinks;
then peers up at him. She clears her throat and tries again. "Mulder?
What happened?" 

His face splits in a grin. "Welcome back. What happened, was you
blacked out and scared me out of a year's growth. Then I decided to
be a gentleman and kept you from doing a swan dive onto the floor." 

It suddenly registers where she is, and she's acutely aware of his
warm body pressed against hers. She flushes and asks, "Why am I on
your lap?"

"If you have to ask, then I'm not doing something right." She rolls
her eyes and he shakes his head. "You know Scully, I think you're
trying to give me a heart attack."

"Yeah, Mulder," she says, dryly, "I live to make your life
miserable. Can I get up now?"  She moves to sit up and is hit with
another wave of vertigo.

"Hey, take it easy for a second." He watches her closely and after a
moment, says, "Let me help you up."

She nods and puts her hand on his arm. "Thank you."

"Okay, now, nice and easy." She can feel the long muscles of his
arms tensing as he lifts her until she's sitting on his leg instead
of lying across his thighs. "Doing all right?"

"I'm fine." He gives her a long, unreadable look. "Really Mulder, I
am."

"That's reassuring. Are you ready to get up, 'cause I've gotta tell
you, my leg's about to fall off."

"Good." She snorts, a decidedly unladylike sound.

"Miss Scully, is that any way to talk to the man who saved you from
another dry-cleaning bill? This floor doesn't have any manure or
swamp mud on it, but it ain't exactly ready to pass a white glove
test."

She ducks her head to hide her smile; then looks up at him.  "Okay,
Mulder. I'm ready to try it again. I don't know what happened."

"First things, first. Let's get you mobile and then we'll worry
about getting you checked out. What did Dr. Johnson say when you went
to see him? Did he clear you to come back?" 

She looks away, and he narrows his eyes at her. "You *did* go, right?"

"I have an appointment for later in the week." She tosses her head
in annoyance. "Are we going to sit here all day, or what?"

"Hmm, I should have known you'd dodge that appointment."  Some
things are constant in Mulder's universe. The sun always rises,
Skinner is always ready to kick his ass, and his Scully is always
fine. 

He sighs. "Okay, Scully. I don't think there's any graceful way to
do this, so let's aim for neither of us getting hurt. Brace yourself
on my shoulders; then I'll help you up." 

When her hands are secure on his shoulders, she nods. "Ready when
you are."

"All right. Now watch your feet. Be careful of where you put those
spikes; I might want to procreate someday." Ignoring her huff, he
places his hands on her waist, mindful of that new tattoo.  He grasps
her as gently as he can; then lifts her smoothly onto her feet. 
He may not like the damn tattoo, but it's part of her now and he
doesn't want to cause her any pain or damage the healing skin. 

"Thanks, Mulder." She watches as he climbs to his feet. She can't
help but admire the way his clothing drapes on his athletic body. 
She turns away before he catches her watching him.

"Come on, partner, let's get going." Mulder rights his upended
chair, retrieves his suit jacket from under it and gets his trench
coat from the rack near the door. "You look tired and Nurse Mulder
thinks you're running a fever. We're going to go to your place; we're
going to get some cream on that tattoo and, you are taking something
for pain and fever. Then, young lady, you are going to get some
rest." 

"Nurse Mulder?" she parrots. "Do you have one of those white hats?"
He laughs and Scully allows herself to be steered toward the door.
She winces when his hand touches her back. 

Mulder pulls his hand away and looks down at her. "Sorry, Scully.
Do you have any pain meds at home, or do we need to stop somewhere?"

Going along with the plan is easier than arguing with him. She's
seen this stubborn look too many times, to think she can dissuade him
from playing Florence Nightingale. "I think I have some Tylenol 3 at
home."

Mulder detours to his desk. Muttering about doctors and lousy
patients, he rummages in the bottom drawer. "Eureka." He pulls a
brown bottle from the desk and reads the label. "Good. Not expired
yet. Want to take some now?"

Popping some pain pills before driving home seems a wise thing to
do, so she nods. Mulder grabs a bottle of her water from a shelf and
places two of the tablets in her hand. She tosses them in her mouth
and follows them with a long drink. 

Mulder watches her, a small smile playing about his lips. "Come on,
let's get you home." 

"Thanks, Mulder." She's surprised that she's able to express it.  "I
appreciate the help."

"Anytime, partner, anytime." He smiles, pleased that she's finally
letting him in enough to take care of her. Well, he thinks, better
late than never. "That's what partners are for, isn't it?" 

She nods as he leads her from the office. He looks down at her
bright crown of hair and smiles to himself. They're going to be fine.


***************************
***************************
to be continued
************************************
************************************

Part Four



"How many times do you figure we've almost lost each other, Scully? 
Fifty?  A hundred?  Several thousand?"  

She stares up at Mulder; he's looking off into space.  One hand is
still tracing caressingly along her spine, but she's not sure how far
in the past he's trekked.  

Deciding to keep it light, she quips, "Is this a trick question? 
What's my prize if I answer correctly?"

When he doesn't respond, she narrows her eyes at him and tugs on the
ends of his hair to get his attention.  "Where did that thought come
from, Mulder?  What's going on in your head?"

He shakes himself a little; looks down at her, faraway mists still
in his eyes.  With a wry smile, he replies, "I was just trying to add
up all the moments we've both been recalling, and wondering how many
of them could have ended in true tragedy."

"You can't be thinking that way.  If you do, you'll drive yourself
mad trying to analyze what has passed, what has made us stronger,
brought us to where we are today."  Her voice quivers for a second,
then holds firm.  "We're alive, Mulder.  Healthy.  Together.  How
many people in the world never find what we have, in their entire
lives?  Maybe we've done our share of suffering, but it's only made
us appreciate what we've attained, and are determined to keep for
ourselves."

For a moment the look in his eyes holds such desolation, and she
sighs in mingled empathy and frustration.  It was the opening of this
thread of conversation that got both of them thinking of not only the
good, but the bad as well.  And of course one can't exist without the
other; it's a fact. It's the bad in life that makes the human animal
appreciate the good.

But Scully knows they've both experienced far more of the bad than
the average Joe, and unfortunately it's always been all about the
job, at least for her.  Mulder's circumstances were always different
because of who he is and from whom he came.  Chances are, regardless
of the career path he'd chosen for himself, his sister would have
always haunted him.  His biological father would have always dogged
his path.  His mother would have still grown distant and cold.

She knows her partner, inside and out.  She understands his frequent
need to mentally flog himself for the tragedies of their combined
past.  But today is for remembering what they are to each other...
and, she supposes, a small bit of it might have to overlap into
darkness.  After all, it's what formed them.

As she wraps comforting arms around the man she loves, Scully finds
herself recalling what had to be one of her darkest hours, of all.   


*************************** 
***************************


CHAPTER TEN

Physician, Heal Thyself
By Piper Sargasso
E-mail: PiperSargasso@aol.com 
Spoilers: Memento Mori, Elegy, Gethsemane, Redux II.

~~~~~~

She's dying.

The words echo, hollow in her head. How can such hateful words be
true? She doesn't *feel* sick. She's always taken care of herself --
healthy diet, regular exercise, steady supply of multi-vitamins. She
stands before the light box in the radiologist's light room, holding
the film of her cat scan and trying to make sense of it all.
Shouldn't she feel something? Some sort of foreign substance pushing
against her forehead, a sense of *wrongness* inside her? Something
has invaded her body, taken up residence between her sinus and
cerebrum. One would think she would notice something... different.

She raises trembling fingers to touch the space between her eyes,
but can feel nothing. Nothing, nothing. Soon, *she'll* be nothing.
She can't even be upset about it; it's all too surreal, like she's on
the outside watching it happening to someone else. She's grateful for
this detachment, even as she suspects when the full force of her
predicament hits her, it's going to hit hard.

Numbly, she pulls out her cell phone. Who to call first? What's the
protocol for this sort of thing? "Hi, Mom. I've got cancer and have
about zero chance of surviving." She could just imagine her mother's
reaction to the news that she's managed to cultivate one of the most
uncommon forms of carcinoma within herself. "That's lovely, dear.
Always knew you were special."

She cringes, unable to even fathom what the appropriate course of
action concerning her mother would be at this time. For now, there is
only one person she's ready to call. Taking a deep breath, she hits
number one on her speed dial.

"Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me." Another deep breath. "Listen, I need you to meet
me at Holy Cross Memorial hospital..."


~~~~~~

He takes it well, much better than she expected. A small, maudlin
part of her wonders if he's worried about breaking in a new partner.
This is ridiculous, of course, but the thought remains in the back of
her head just the same. 

She finds that she's able to remain unemotional, even when he begins
his vehement denial.

"I refuse to accept that," he says in his heartbreakingly innocent
way. 

She repeats the facts to him, brooking no nonsense or any false
sense of hope from either of them as she drives her point home.
Recovery is unlikely, death is more than probable. Yet he remains so
hopeful, she almost wants to cry for him. Almost. She feels there is
no more time to waste for tears.

Later, in Skinner's office, he seems as surprised as Mulder did that
she wants to throw herself into the investigation of the women in
Allentown. She wonders at this; don't they know her better than to
think she'd be content to die in some hospital bed somewhere while
the men that did this to them would go unchallenged? 

~~~~~~

And now these women are all dead. All but one.

For the first time since she found out, she feels real fear. It
takes seeing Penny Northern in the flesh, seeing her rapidly-
degenerating form to break through the layers of steel and pragmatism
she's heaped upon herself in the interest of self-preservation. 

Finally, finally... she can accept what's happening to her. Her
salvation, it seems, lies in the hands of a man she's never met, but
whom Penny Northern holds in the highest trust and regard. Whereas
she has accepted, Mulder has wrapped himself in a cocoon of anger and
relentless determination. She hears it in his voice on the phone,
senses it while in his uncomfortable presence. Blind drive and
aimless faith propels him. To what end, she can't be sure. She has
her own battles to fight.

~~~~~~

The radiation and chemo hit her harder than she ever suspected with
all her medical background and study. Words on a printed page can't
affect you, but the reality of her treatment makes her want to give
up before she has even begun. 

Penny is an immeasurable comfort. And her journal helps her keep
things in perspective. She's more relieved than she feels she should
be, knowing Mulder is out there searching on her behalf in his dogged
way. She feels grateful; she has more than most of the MUFON women
had, including Penny.

Mulder looks more desperate every time she sees him -- as desperate
as her mother looks bitter. She supposes Margaret Scully has had just
about enough of loss.   

~~~~~~

When Penny passes, it's with the quiet dignity of a woman who
doesn't want to make a fuss. There are no dramatics, no final words.
Scully had sat there, holding her hand, when the bedridden woman
suddenly looked at her and smiled a soft smile. She smiled back. The
hand that held hers in a weak grasp weakened even more still, turning
colder in an instant, the feeble light in her eyes, gone. 

Scully knows the woman has passed on, but is reluctant to let the
hand go. Penny was so much to her in such a short space of time. But
above all else, Penny gave her the courage to hope. Without Scully
ever having to voice it, Penny knew she'd planned not to fight. 

Mulder seems awkward when he finds out. She wonders if it's because
he never really knew the woman, or if it's because it reminds him of
her own shortened time on this Earth. It doesn't matter though. As he
holds her, he reminds her why it's important to fight, to *try*. In
that instant, he's her buoy to cling to in a turbulent and uncaring
sea.

She walks back to her room and gathers her things to leave first
thing in the morning. Dr. Scanlon or no Dr. Scanlon, she's too wrung
out from her bedside vigil to leave tonight. Sparing little more than
a passing glance at the mirror, she is nonetheless disturbed to see
her own ghost-like image, dark circles ringing her eyes, washed-out
complexion and pale lips. 

She looks like hell, but at least she's still alive. And now, she
has a purpose. 

~~~~~~

She goes through so many tissues these days that the night clerk at
her neighborhood drugstore finally asks if she needs some NyQuil to
go with her pocket-sized purchases. He's a flirty young thing,
something that amuses her to no end when all that psuedo-suave
demeanor is directed toward her. She gives the pimply twenty-
something a tight-lipped smile and walks out, question unanswered,
mysterious persona intact. She finds she has more patience for people
these days, as if the mere thought of her mortality has made her a
more serene creature. It's a morbid comfort at times, feeling that at
least she has some idea when she'll go and how whereas to everyone
else, such a thing is as easy to divine as tonight's winning lottery
numbers.  

Tonight, her humor is dampened. It's easy to pass the image of the
murdered college girl off as a suggestion drilled into her
subconscious, or a hallucination. Once Mulder has shared his theory
about the dead appearing before the terminally ill and dying,
however, she feels the chill of her own impending death surrounding
her prematurely. Could it be possible? It makes sense, so much in
fact, that she hasn't dared challenge his theory. Seeing Harold in
her rearview mirror cinches it. 

The trips to the hospital are becoming more frequent. She's been
pricked by so many needles, she doesn't even flinch any more. Her
nose is always red and raw from the regular swabbings it gets with
Kleenex, and more clothes than she cares to admit have been damaged
by her recurrent nosebleeds. Rather than send them to the cleaners,
she packs most of them into the trash can. Less to box up when her
mother goes though the apartment later, she figures.

It's hard to stay positive in light of all the treatment and
hindrances she experiences on a daily basis. She's learned to put up
a strong front, even when she's alone, and leave all negativity to
her thoughts. At least there, where the cancer festers and thrives,
she can be honest with herself. After all, who's there to fool?

Mulder is angry she didn't tell him about the first vision until
now. How could he understand? To admit to that would be to admit his
theory was correct in a most disruptive way. What would such an
admission do to their fragile denial of her sickness? To confront it
outwardly, day after day, would be more than either of them would
want to deal with. It's bad enough the thoughts of it never lets them
rest, never lets them see past surviving the next couple of weeks. 

In truth, he isn't angry with her for not telling him sooner. He's
angry that he was right. He's bitter that they have to talk about
this thing eating at her, stealing away precious years. 

She almost wants to give up and take some sick leave, to give both
of them a much-needed break. But she's terrified she won't ever come
*back* from sick leave. More than that, she needs him more than he
can ever know. She needs his strength and his conviction, his
abundance of nervous energy. It's as essential to her as oxygen these
days. 

~~~~~~

The cancer has moved into her bloodstream. Try as she might, she
can't seem to shake the unimaginable fear that she'll pass on one
night in her sleep, to be discovered by Mulder when he comes to check
why she hasn't been answering her phone. Against her will, her
clinical mind categorizes the stages of decomposition of the human
body. It gives her nightmares at night and shivers throughout the
day, thinking this flesh she sees on her arm and the skin of the leg
she shaves will soon look worse than the preserved cadavers in med
school. They will take on the bluish-purple shade of the decomposed
dead, veins running deep plum beneath the bloated surface. 

Her worst nightmare is that Mulder will find her like that. 

She has *some* time, she knows this. It's no comfort to her when she
panics in this manner, though, for death seems as close as the next
room, just... waiting... for her. 

She can't tell anyone of her fears. Not her mother, not Mulder.
Especially not Bill, who gave her one of his more gentle guilt trips
in the hospital after her spill down the stairwell, courtesy of
Kritschgau. It was a relief, however, that he was angry with her
rather than smothering her with the sympathy she'd expected. Either
way, she didn't have the energy to deal with her oldest brother.
Energy, she's finding, is in short supply. 

~~~~~~

Hope. Something she has carried with her, discarded, then picked up
again like a lifeline more times than she can remember. He has the
miracle cure in his hands, eyes wide and full of faith that it will
work even in the face of so much negative reception. Scully dares to
feel hope rise within her again.

She's undergoing the procedure in less than two hours. If it doesn't
work, the oxygen will carry the cancer like wind agitates a wildfire,
causing it to spread beyond containment.  Considering her
metastasized state, she really has nothing left to lose. 

He shuts the door, at her request, and takes her hand.

"I'm scared," she tells him in a scratchy voice now that they're
alone.

He closes his eyes. "I know."

"If this doesn't work, I'm coming back to kick your ass."

He stares at her, eyes wide at the realization that she just made a
joke, then chokes out a laugh that's half sob and smiles wanly. "It's
a deal, partner."

His face is the last thing she thinks about an hour and a half
later, when the anesthesiologist puts her under. Her buoy, her *true*
lifeline...

~~~~~~

She's tried so hard to accept the fact there's been no change in her
condition that the sudden news that it's in remission is as surreal
as finding out she had cancer in the first place. It's unsettling,
this unexpected miracle. She hardly knows how to act, what to think.
Part of her wants to kick her well-meaning visitors out of the room
and hide under the covers for the next ten years, while the other
part wants to kiss Fox Mulder full on the lips for his unyielding
search for her cure. 

For now, she'll sleep unafraid. She will see tomorrow. 

Just before drifting off, she makes a silent vow to waste none of
this precious gift. 


*********************************
*********************************


She didn't.  Mulder smiles as he strokes over her hair, fanning out
over the pillow next to his.  She didn't waste it.  Although they
were still slow to the start line, at least they got there. 
Consequently the time between friends and actual lovers had greater
depth of meaning for both of them.  

When he glances tenderly over at her, she appears to be dozing
lightly.  Though he'd rather have her awake and involved in something
more interesting than a cat-nap, he leaves her be, thinking she can
use all the cat-naps she can get.  Mulder lets his eyes close,
content to lie next to his lover and allow his mind to drift...
 
With stealthy intent, the foot slides its way toward him, barely
ruffling the blankets.  When it gleefully insinuates between his
legs, his eyes pop open wide; he jumps and curses aloud, "Dammit,
Scully!  Your feet are STILL like ice!"

She laughs at his reaction, delighted to have fooled him into
thinking she was asleep.  "My hands are still cold, too.  Maybe you
should grab hold of them before I bury them someplace warm, as well."
She lifts the aforementioned hand and waves her fingers at him, and
with another muttered curse he snatches at it and brings it to his
mouth, blowing on her fingers to warm them up.

"God only knows what kind of permanent damage you could do to me, if
you shoved an ice-cold hand where I'm thinking you wanted to shove
it."

"Wuss."

After her hand gains some warmth and her fingers start tingling, she
presses her palm to his and admires the contrast between their hands.
His long and elegant fingers have always held a sort of fascination
for her.  She's never seen him trim his nails other than chew on
them, yet they always look neat and clean.  She's never seen him care
for his hands in any manner, the way some men are known to do. In
spite of that, his cuticles are never ragged.  It's as if they
magically grow that way.  Meanwhile her own nails are short and
uneven because they refuse to grow at all and her cuticles are thick
and have more or less taken control of her fingers.  She sighs;
here's another prime example of the male being the prettier of the
species.

There are thin, faint white marks around his wrist; she frowns a
little as she traces one of them.  "After all these years, you'd
think they would have disappeared completely."

He glances at his wrist and shudders.  "Jeez, don't remind me!  I
swear I still have nightmares about it."

"And how often would that be, Mulder?  You never mentioned this
before."

He's quick to reassure, "Oh, not all that often.  Really.  And I
can't even remember what I dream of.  I just awaken sometimes, out of
what feels like a sound sleep, and my hands and arms are aching. 
Maybe I clench my fists in my sleep, or something."

"I wish you'd told me."  She's trying to hide her concern but doing
a bad job of it.

He squeezes her fingers lightly.  "It's not a big deal, Scully. 
Because when it happens, and I awaken like that... I see you lying
next to me and whatever phantom pain I was feeling in my dream goes
away as soon as I reach out and wrap myself around you."

"Well... okay.  But see that you continue to do so, mister."

"You can bet on it, baby."   He seals the promise by winding his
arms and legs around her, beating down the remembrance of what caused
the nightmares in the first place...


*****************************************
*****************************************


CHAPTER ELEVEN

Deliver Me
by FBIWhistleblower (aka Fibbie)
Email:  FBIWhistleblower@aol.com
Spoilers:  Kill Switch
Author's Notes:  Thanks to xphilernj for the push and Robin for the
beta.

~~~~~~

Deliver me 
intact
like a great long shackled wall 
permanence dangling 
in between the parts 
the shred I cling to 
torn bits of me and you
deliver me 
away from here 
someplace cool and quiet 
shade and slow talk 
nothing left to cling to 
except torn bits 
of me and you

-- 1988, "Deliver Me" 
by d.A. Sebastian of the band, "Kill Switch."  


~~~~~~

Scully holds her keys carefully to keep them from jingling together
as she unlocks the door, turns the knob and quietly enters the
apartment.  If Mulder's asleep, she does not want to shock him awake;
he's had so little sleep lately.

It's been about two weeks now.  The first couple of days were the
worst for him, when the nightmares were on him.  She'd go to him and
hold him tight until he could fall asleep again.

Interesting, that.  He doesn't have the nightmares when she holds
him.  So what does *that* mean?  Scully smiles to herself at what she
knows to be true, regardless of the fact that neither of them ever
speak of their feelings for each other.

Scully enters the foyer of Mulder's apartment and sees him reclining
on the sofa, the Navajo blanket pulled down over him haphazardly. 
The television is on and the remote hangs limply from his right hand.
His left hand rests on his chest.

Both wrists are swathed with the bandages he allows her to care for.
She thinks, despite the circumstances, that he truly enjoys having
her touch him.

Scully puts her keys in her trenchcoat and hangs it on his coat
rack, dropping off the package in his rather spartan kitchen, then
turns back to her partner/patient with a small smile.

She looks him over from head to toe.  His hair is sticking up,
spiked everywhere, making her think of an insane porcupine.  She
smiles; Scully can't wait to run her fingers through his hair to tame
his locks.  He's *her* insane porcupine, even if he doesn't really
know it yet.

His face is relaxed, though his eyes are still slightly swollen from
the abuse he took in that trailer from where Scully rescued him. 
Mulder grumbled through the eye ointment, but that part of it is over.

Yet he still follows his doctor's orders and, for his trouble,
always receives a lengthy kiss on his forehead.  He seems to want
rather than need the ointment on his wrists more often, even though
they are healing more and more quickly, she thinks.

She moves to stand between the sofa and the coffee table, then leans
over him.  She doesn't want to surprise him; he's not taking
surprises easily these days.

Slowly, she reaches out and places her palm on the hand Mulder has
resting on his chest, the other removing the remote and placing it on
the table.  

Scully strokes his hand, careful to avoid the bandages.  "Mulder,"
she whispers, "I need you to wake up."  She reaches with the other
hand to push her fingers gently into the quills of his hair, rubbing
lightly but insistently.

"Come on, Mulder," Scully smiles, "Wakey-wakey!"   She leans over
and presses a warm kiss to his forehead, telling herself she does
this to check his temperature.  He'd suffered an intense fever after
she'd gotten him out of that hell-bent trailer, but he absolutely
refused hospitalization of any sort.  His fever actually broke well
over a week ago, but she indulges herself.  She could have so easily
lost him.

Because of his newest fear of hospitals, she's made arrangements
with Skinner to take personal time and leave to take care of Mulder
until he's ready for desk duty.

Days later, when she'd awakened him from a nightmare, he'd shakily
explained to her about his 'dream hospital' from the time in the
trailer.  She doesn't blame him at all for not wanting to be
admitted; his wounds have been such that she has been able to handle
them with little worry.

Scully has found that the best way of reassuring Mulder of his
wholeness is by touching his hands repeatedly and often.

There have been so many times, so many occasions and she feels that
bits and pieces of each of them have been torn away, a little at a
time.

"Mulder," she's still leaning over him, her breath a whisper against
his brow, "Wake up.  I'm back with your medication refill and it's
time to change your bandages."

"Scully?" his voice is uncertain, shaky.

"Yes," she reassures, starting to move so she can look directly into
his eyes.  His hands stop her.

"Don't..." he begs.

"I have to change your bandages," she says, kissing his forehead
again. "You know I'll be gentle with you."  Her comment has double
meanings, which are not lost on him.

"But if you move, Scully, I'll lose the wondrous view I have
straight down your blouse of your lovely and ample bosom," he says in
a pitiful voice.

She snorts and turns pink from the throat upward.  Standing, she
clutches her blouse to her chest and stares down at him.  Mulder
gazes right back, a twinkle in his eyes that has been slow in
returning.  "Mulder," she chides, "you're *not* supposed to be
looking there!"

"Well, where am I supposed to look, when you put it out there on
display for God and everybody to see?" he asks with a snort of his
own.  He pushes himself back on the sofa to make room for her and she
sits down, roughly at hip level with him.

The infamous Scully eyebrow is arched at him, but she isn't able to
keep up the "angry" look and she grins. "Well, you're obviously
feeling better, if you're staring down my blouse."

"But alas, Scully," he reaches and pulls at the sleeve of her
blouse, "I stare down your blouse every chance I get.  I'd hoped to
take it to another level today; but I wasn't fast enough to get to
the 'mindless groping' part."

She smiles at him.  "Okay, well then.  My work here is done.  You're
back to your double-entendres, so I know you're okay."

Mulder tries to look contrite, but fails miserably with the smile
that's curving the edges of his mouth.  Scully watches his plump
lower lip, a thing of beauty that has been a constant source of
fascination since the day she met him.  She always wonders what it
would feel like to kiss him; however, they are not ready to cross
that line, if ever. 

But, oh, how she wants to.

He catches her looking at him; his expression unreadable.  She
hurriedly glances away and reaches for the ever-present medical
supplies on the coffee table in front of her.  

"I brought your favorite Chinese," Scully says as she goes about
starting to change the bandages on his wrists.  They're still a bit
tender from the electrical burns, but they *are,* in fact, healing
quite well.

Mulder doesn't and won't complain; it's an excuse for Scully to
touch him -- something he'd like to have happen every day for the
rest of his life.  "Oh, is *that* what I smelled?  I thought maybe
you'd done an especially interesting and fragrant autopsy today."

Scully glances up to meet his warm hazel gaze and smiles back at him
reassuringly.  "What?  You wanted the leftovers from the autopsy?"

With intense deliberation, she peels away the soiled coverings of
his left wrist, cleans the healing wound carefully, swaths it with
ointment and breathable gauze as quickly as she can.  To labor over
it might cause him pain and he's been in enough pain spiritually,
emotionally and physically from this particular X File.  

His eyes have long since healed from their abuse.  The burns are
taking a while longer.

"Oh, yuck," Mulder replies.  "I don't know how you do it; performing
autopsies with one hand and eating yogurt and bee pollen with the
other."

"'Yuck?'  Mr. 'I'll-Stick-My-Fingers-Into-Anything-On-The-Face-Of-
This-Planet'?  Mr. 'I'll-Eat-Anything-That's-Fried-And-Doesn't-Walk-
Off-My-Plate'?  Does the word 'bile' mean anything to you, Mulder? 
Besides, I'll have you know, it's called multi-tasking," Scully says,
her eyes intent now on the other wrist.  "It takes a level of
sophisticated intelligence that's uncommon."  She looks up at him,
trying hard not to smile, "It's something you might want to try once
in awhile.  *If* that Oxford-educated brain can handle such a thing,
that is."

"Scully," Mulder says quietly, catching her attention, "I multi-task
quite well most all of the time."  He watches her bandaging his
wrist, "For example, I'm watching what you're doing, thinking about
that stunning view of your rosy and ample bosom, wondering if your
panties match your blue satin bra and damning myself for not
mindlessly groping you before you could get away."

Scully picks up his hand, looks at her work, places it on his chest
on top of his other hand and carefully pats them both. "Well,
Mulder," she stands and leans over, ostensibly to double-check her
bandaging but surprising him and stopping his reply by offering him
another view down her blouse.  "You forgot about the pencils in the
ceiling in your definition of multi-tasking, you know."

Mulder cannot help but stare; then guiltily raises his eyes to meet
her blue ones, which are twinkling with mirth.  "And I'm not telling
you about my panties."  She stands up and heads toward his kitchen
for plates, silverware and canned iced tea.  "Besides, you'll never
know if I'm even wearing any."

Scully grins to herself, sashaying away from him; sure she can hear
him choking and certain she has his full attention.

The flirting is fun.  It's something they don't get to do very
often.  It also distracts Mulder from his discomfort.  Since he's so
adamantly rejected the medical profession, per se, this go-round,
she's had to stand-in as she's done many times before, as his Primary
Care Physician.

She likes the way that sounds on her tongue and smiles at him as she
returns to the sofa with their lunch and his new antibiotic and other
meds.

Scully stops long enough to pick up a video that he hadn't noticed
she'd brought, taking it to the TV and VCR and setting it up for play.

"Which movie?" he asks. "There's only so many times I can tolerate
'Steel Magnolias' without massive doses of Pepto-Bismol, a welding
mask and morphine."

"It's not 'Steel Magnolias,' Mulder," Scully says, sitting next to
him and taking the plate of food he has proffered to her.

He glances sideways at her, waiting for all the FBI warnings to
finish. "Would it be 'Dana Does D.C.' by any chance?"

Scully gives him the eyebrow, watches to see that he swallows his
medications, digs into her broccoli chicken and steamed rice and
turns her head back to the television, waiting for his reaction out
of the corner of her eye.

The Warner Bros. emblem appears, the movie starts and Mulder turns
to stare at her in surprise.  "A chick flick, Scully!  You brought me
my favorite chick flick!"  He gives her his biggest, best smile and
she's glad she picked wisely.

She's leaning against him, curled up, eating in mostly companionable
silence as Mulder, between bites of food, speaks the lines of the
movie along with the actors.  She knew the second she saw the video
that "Blazing Saddles" would be perfect.  She *knew* she couldn't
stand another viewing of "CaddyShack."  At least not for awhile.  Not
without massive doses of Pepto-Bismol, a welding mask and morphine. 
She can't wait for the campfire scene.

~~~~~~

When she awakens, she realizes the tape has rewound and that Mulder
has fallen asleep with a good portion of his upper body curled into
her lap.

Scully turns off the VCR with the remote, finds a "white noise"
channel, since he sleeps better with it on in the background, and she
sleeps better knowing he sleeps better.

She's spent over two weeks at his apartment, theoretically sleeping
in his bed while he slept on his more familiar sofa.  However, all of
her time has been spent sharing the sofa with him.  Mulder seems to
rest more peacefully with Scully touching him in some way and that
makes her feel as if she's doing something more important for him
than tending his healing wounds.

"Scully," a groggy voice says, "What'cha doin'?"  She glances down
to see sleepy hazel eyes, pupils dilated, looking up at her.

"I just woke up."

"Well, you can't be comfortable like that, with me on top of you." 
Mulder yawns, for once completely unaware of that particular double-
entendre, and sits up.  "Aren't you gonna get in your jammies, Agent
Scully?"  He waggles his eyebrows at her sleepily.

"Only if you are, Agent Mulder," Scully returns the gesture, and he
laughs.

"So ... what?  We're having an Officially-Sanctioned FBI Slumber
Party?" he asks as he scratches his chest unconsciously.  Her eyes
drift down to watch the movement then back up as his hand stills. 
"Go on," he gives her a nudge with his knee.  "Go get changed.  You
know the routine."  Mulder smiles gently at her, trying to assure her
that he's okay, but there is a bit of a panicked look on his face. 
He's afraid she's going to leave.

"All right," Scully says.  "I'm just going to go change and brush my
teeth and I'll be out."

That's his official notice to change into his sleepwear and he nods.

When she returns ten minutes later, Mulder is sitting on the sofa in
a pair of gray sweatpants and a navy blue Quantico t-shirt.  Scully
stands there  gaping at him and then barks out a laugh, startling her
partner who turns to look at her.  He takes her in from head to toe.

"Scully!" he smiles like a maniac.  "We're twins!"  Ironically -- or
maybe not so ironically -- they're wearing exactly the same thing.

"Well, don't get any ideas, bub," Scully says.

Mulder sticks out that plump lower lip and makes it quiver.  "You
mean I *still* can't see your panties?"

"Sorry, Mulder, no."  Scully waits for him to let her position
herself the way *he* wants her to sleep, the way it's been working
for him and keeping the nightmares at bay.  She reclines on the sofa,
rearranging the pillows for her comfort and opens her arms to him.

Mulder hesitates for a moment, wishing she would do this under an
entirely different set of circumstances and wonders if they'll ever
be on the same page.

"You're a tease, is what you are, Agent Scully," Mulder sits on the
sofa and stretches out, his back to her front, waiting for her to
wrap her arms around him and hold him so he can sleep again.  "You
showed me your underwear on our very first case together and you
haven't shown it to me since.  At least not intentionally."  He sighs
deeply, rooting into the sofa and loving the smell of her hair, her
shampoo, everything that is so Scully.

"That was an anomaly," Scully replies, her voice close to his ear. 
"Try to sleep.  Count sheep."

"I don't wanna count sheep," Mulder replies, a bit groggy from the
food and the medication she gives him.

"Okay, then," Scully reaches up with her free hand and runs her
fingers through his hair, "Then count panties, Mulder.  Panties
leaping over fences."

Mulder chuckles into the pillow at the imagery.  "Can they be
Victoria's Secret?"

Scully laughs quietly back at him.  "They can be *any* secret you
want them to be."

They are quiet for a time and she's certain he's asleep until his
hand comes up to pull hers down and hold it over his heart, which
seems to be tripping at double-time.  "Scully?" He sounds panicked.

"I'm here," she replies.

"Don't let me go, Scully," Mulder begs her.

"I'll never let you go," she kisses his ear as chastely as possible
and slowly rubs her hand on his chest where he's placed it.  His
heart is slowing to a normal beat.

<I'll never let you go.  Ever, Fox William Mulder,> Scully thinks to
herself.  They're not as torn when they're together.  They're not in
bits.  They're whole and she knows this.  She won't let him go. 
She's told him as much.

And she means it.


*************************
*************************
to be continued